My little boy is growing up.
Yes, yes, I know, this shouldn't come as a surprise. But it kind of has.
Sure we recognise all the regular milestones - first word, first step, first tooth, yada yada. But then they get a bit older and these reminders don't come along quite so frequently. And then, suddenly, they do.
In the past couple of weeks, Gromit has matured in front of my eyes. First, it was his rejection of Big Dog, the soft toy that has been his constant companion since the winemaker bought it at the hospital gift shop the day Gromit was born. Sure, Big Dog still sits on his bed during the day, but the poor thing is tossed unceremoniously on the floor at bedtime, when he used to be cuddled all night.
Then, he decided he wanted to read to himself before bed. The night-time ritual of me snuggling up to my boy and reading to him - one of the more peaceful moments of my day - was over. Kaput.
Until last week, Gromit needed the light on to go to sleep. Now he turns it off himself - after he's read a couple of chapters of his latest Boys Rule or Aussie Bites adventure.
Finally, yesterday we cleaned out his bedroom and he happily threw away broken, rubbishy toys and other things he no longer had a use for (3 1/2 garbage bags full! Plus a box of toys and books to be put aside for his sister).
He turns seven next month. My baby is no more.